


The Snow Calls to Her

by regala_electra



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aunt/Nephew Incest, F/M, Pregnancy, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 20:02:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12019971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regala_electra/pseuds/regala_electra
Summary: Though she is barren, her courses still follow the moon.She'll bleed soon enough.





	The Snow Calls to Her

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the season seven finale, Daenerys makes her way to Winterfell.

Daenerys dreams of horse’s blood, hot in her mouth, her own heart pumping fiercely as she swallows the tough muscle and feels the life within her womb quickening.

She wakes remembering her dead child and her dragon lost to eternal winter and the feel of Jon’s breath against her neck. 

They are in a tent on the road to Winterfell. A harsh storm halted their journey for two days and they would not again take to the bleak winter roads until this very morning. She has awoken before sunrise and she is certain in the Bay of Dragons, it is already a blazing morning. At the back of her mouth, she can almost taste the heady spices that hung in the air in Meereen, can recall the layout of her former opulent bedchambers, and she presses her back against Jon’s chest and is grateful that she is here instead. Her purpose here is far greater.

She can smell the copper of first drawn blood and assumes at first it is her moon blood but when she discreetly touches between her legs, she finds her sex damp only with early arousal, and the faint hint of Jon’s spent seed. Her courses have not yet begun, and she wonders briefly if the lingering blood scent was but a remnant of her dream.

His cock is firm against the back of her thighs and she already longs for him to awaken and thrust home, another quick dallance before they are to once again become queen and warden.

Her breasts ache with tenderness as his arm tightens across her chest when he finally rouses. His touch is gentle, lips dry yet soft upon her shoulder as he speaks her name, his Northern accent slurring the syllables with warm familiarity. She whispers his in response and turns around in his arms. 

Daenerys will never not be surprised by his open gaze when he enters her, so unafraid and unyielding. Her thumb brushes against the scar under his eye as she brings his face closer so that she may kiss him. She intends a gentle nip upon his bottom lip, but her teeth graze too harshly, and a drop of blood enters her mouth and the dream comes back in sharper reflection. She had dreamt of her lost child, of the Dothraki ritual.

Jon does not seem to notice the blood upon his lip and she licks it clean, gentles the ache he cannot yet feel as he thrusts into her. She tightens her legs around his hips as she feels her climax draw closer. She pants, “Yes, but a little…” and it is that, mere gasping words that allow him to shift within her, press deeper, his hand between their bodies before she knows it--and pressing upon her until her cunt throbs with release and she begs for him to follow, for he must follow, he is _hers_.

And she is his.

 

*

 

Rations are limited, even for a queen. The midday meal is eaten as a short respite, to let their horses rest. Her dragons have roamed far and wide and she makes sure her children are well-fed before she returns to ride alongside Jon. Missandei accompanies her, along with Jorah. There are charred bones alongside Drogon and Rhaegal as they also take a brief rest, having melted away snow from the large clearings. She touches one rib bone, perhaps belonging to a cattle, and cannot help pulling off a chunk of the burnt flesh but the charred remains turn to ashes between her fingers. She still hungers for rough heart muscle, as she dreamed, as she remembered. 

“My Queen?” Missandei gently questions when Daenerys spends too long looking upon the bones.

“It is nothing,” she says, because she cannot add further troubles to these troubling times.

 

*

 

They are two days from Winterfell, perhaps one and a half if the weather holds, Jon announces at supper. They have been joined by some of the Northern bannermen this night and the unease is thick in the air. Daenerys has already gotten weary of the pretenses and the sharp Northern words, but makes sure to say the correct things before partaking of some blood sausage. She had never particularly cared for it before but finds it satisfying now, so much that she ignores the other paltry offerings, even a rabbit stew that everyone else tucks into with genuine enthusiasm. 

Tyrion sits to the right of her and wryly comments that he did not expect her to be so fond of such a Northern treat, his voice fully sarcastic on the _treat_. 

She cannot help but cooly remind him that she had to refine her palate throughout her life. He takes it for the warning she intends. She does not say that she longs to command someone to cut a milking goat and feast upon the fresh meat. A memory brought into sharp relief: her Dothraki maidens doing such an act during...no, she must not think upon it too deeply. 

Yet she is quiet during the rest of dinner. Naturally, she makes the necessary declarations at the end, for the Northerners trust her not at all and she can sense their faith in Jon has diminished as he has pledged himself to her. But beyond that, she cannot say more, for she is consumed not with thoughts of fire and blood, but something even more ancient and lost to her.

She is the last and must accept that.

 

*

 

Though she is barren, her courses still follow the moon. That night it is full and hangs heavy in the clear sky, she feels as though she could ride Drogon to the moon and touch its bright surface. She ought not to be out so late, but Drogon was warm against her side and she is meters away from several of her Dotraki bloodriders. She must continue counting the days. A month could mean nothing.

A month would mean nothing. 

She never held Rhaego in her arms and she would bear no living child.

She’ll bleed soon enough.

 

*

 

She goes to Jon that night, finding him in deep conversation with Davos. It is hard to be annoyed that she cannot have immediate satisfaction when Davos makes such obvious motions to conceal that their conversation was overtly about her. He makes his excuses to depart and Jon seems visibly frustrated even after Davos exited the tent.

“You probably want to know what that was about,” Jon says gruffly, removing his fur coat and sitting upon his makeshift bed. He makes short work of his boots and then looks upon her like he is quite done with conversation and wishes instead to lose himself inside her.

“Tell me in the morning,” she says, removing her own cloak and gloves. “If you wish. _I_ wish nothing more than a night’s sleep without our Hands vexing us.”

“Has Tyrion had more questions?”

She huffs a laugh. “None tonight but he never needed questions.” 

“Aye,” Jon says agreeably, standing up as she gestures to him to do, fondly kissing her when she is within his grasp. 

Tyrion has never had questions, only carefully crafted comments that manage to pierce the heart that she wishes was not so tender. He thinks her a fool in love, and how can she pretend otherwise when here with Jon she feels so safe? She had guarded her heart for so long only to lose it on the way to North, and Jon can break it so easily.

She pulls back. There is much she wants to tell him but it is not the time for that. “I am the first of my name, Jon Snow, but did you know of my namesake ancestor, Daenys the Dreamer?”

He shakes his head and she begins to remove his leathers. So she tells the story, as she had been told it, hoping it is accurate enough, but knowing that time and slanted perspectives have undoubtedly ruined it.

He is quiet for only a moment. “So it was a woman that saved the Targaryens long ago.” Jon has undone her braids as she exposes his scarred chest, the fine muscles of his body, so neatly made. His hands loop into her newly freed hair as he holds her gaze. “And it will be another woman to save her people once more.”

“You have faith in me.” It is a loaded comment, she knows but Jon answers affirmably without hesitation.

“Yes, my queen.” 

He is much quicker than her when it comes to removing a lover’s clothing. His head is between her legs before she has realized her back is upon the heavy fur covers, licking her cunt before she can even gasp his name. 

Jon is meticulous in his efforts and works her over with aplomb.

She comes with his fingers digging deeply into the tender flesh of her inner thighs to keep her open, his lips sucking her clitoris. He cannot help dipping his tongue into her sex as the orgasm washes through her, chasing the echoes of her climax. It is only when she tugs at his hair that he moves up her body, with a loping comfortable ease. Jon nips along her abdomen, dedicating extra attention to each breast, his teeth worrying at her nipples to enflame her further. Their only words to each other for the rest of the night is the sparse language of lovers.

 

*

 

She dreams only of fire that night, of setting the dragon eggs into the pyre and walking in sure the flames would not consume her. But in this dream, the fire is not the only element that crackles of unyielding magic.

In this dream, as the fire leaves her as naked as the stormy night she was born into the world, snow falls from the sky, and the fire cannot melt the snowflakes as they land upon her skin and hair. She raises her hands to the sky and the snow calls to her, her name is strangely accented, the syllables of _Daenerys_ slurred, and then she hears the cry, distant and eerie.

The sharp cry of a child. 

Her dragons roar in response, and she realizes that the sound is of only two dragons. 

But she had borne three dragons in the fire.

The snow ought to be cold upon her naked flesh but feels hot and the white flakes bleed upon her, until she is covered in blood. _Blood of my blood_ , she whispers in the dream and her children respond in calamitous joy.

 

*

 

She has not yet had her moon blood when they arrive at Winterfell. Her diet must be affecting her natural courses, for she has had great trouble breaking her fast, taking only hot tea in the morning. All she craves is meat, meat cooked in the tender ways of Essos, barely seared, the blood only enhancing the rare flavor. Her back aches and breasts have become more tender; surprisingly she had uncovered bruises along her chest after her last coupling with Jon, and he had not been too rough with her, rather he had been just the type of rough she found so deliciously satisfying. She has been too sensitive once before but she pushes that thought away before it can be completed. 

Daenerys refuses to linger on foolish hopes.

Missandei seems on the verge of inquiring after her health after she upends her simple lunch of dried meats, but Daenerys ends potential speculation by claiming she had partaken of too much wine the night before.

It is an obvious lie, she had merely a single cup, but Missandei allows it for the time being. 

 

*

 

Her Winterfell quarters are satisfactory and far warmer than she had expected. Tyrion is situated across the hall, and Missandei next door, though she expects that Missandei shall be spending most of her evenings with Grey Worm, who is situated amongst his men in an encampment outside the gates of Winterfell. She insists Missandei be accompanied with several of Daenerys’s fiercest guards at all times, for the Northerners suspect her and her retinue. There has been little joy that the Mad King’s daughter has come to Winterfell, but they heard her dragons cry in air above and she swore that she would not let the North fall to the army of the dead.

She expects Jon that night, but he never comes and since the first time they had laid together on the ship to White Harbor, she sleeps alone.

It is a fitful sleep and full of ill omens.

In the dream, she is outside of Winterfell, the gate shuttered closed and the castle is desolate. Her voice cannot be heard over the storm. Drogon is too far above in the sky and refuses to answer to her, and there is a tent across a clearing that she had envisioned once in the House of the Undying. She had refused the lie then and plans not to enter this time. The cold ought to freeze her but she feels no chill. Within her burns a brightness that will outlive the storm.

She does not know how she makes her way there, but she is soon underground and follows the winding catacombs until she comes across the lady rendered in stone. Before she can touch the blue rose set upon the statue’s hands, a voice calls to her, a rare sound: the first cry of a newborn child--

And she wakes to Missandei’s hand upon her shoulder, a look of worry on her dear friend’s face. “There has been word from the Wall.”

The word is horrifying. 

 

*

 

She is surprised when Jon refuses to look in her direction throughout the strategy meeting that morning. The wights have breached the wall and they march directly towards Winterfell, ignoring the more obvious route along the eastern coast to attack vulnerable holds. Finally, when the decisions are settled, for they cannot wait for the Lannister forces to arrive before the dead are upon them, she asks for a private word with Jon, knowing that many have overhead her request and will take it as valuable information: how she goes to him so willingly. But she has felt the chill of his distance, and there is little time for this awkwardness between them.

He agrees yet barely looks her in the eye when doing so. 

“Perhaps there is somewhere we will not be overheard,” she says pointedly.

The crypt is not as winding but in the manner of dreams, has a familiar clarity. She is surprised the air is not as cold as it ought to be in this gloomy underground, and they are soon upon the statue. The lady’s visage is much the same but the statue carries no roses.

Jon’s voice is pained when he begins. “This is Lyanna Stark.”

Had she known what he would say next, perhaps she would have accepted his cool distance and embraced the ignorance. The startling information he has obtained from his brother and verified by Samwell Tarly has changed everything.

A Stark and a Targaryen wed and their issue, a son, survived despite the odds. 

Despite the odds, her heart is claimed by the son of her lost brother and Lyanna Stark.

 

*

 

Their relationship has returned to what it ought to be, she convinces herself. She had to lie to him and declare that he has not changed in her estimation before the stunning revelations and that she understands that they cannot continue to be more than a Queen and a Warden of the North. He is not as good as lying as she is, and her lie was quite terrible. 

She thinks he would have taken her, right then and there if she had touched him. Though they vainly pretended that they had come to an amicable agreement, and she left him to his vexed thoughts, anger stirred within her that he did not fight for her as she knew she would have fought for him. But Daenerys did not fight for him or plead her love and moves ahead with her head held high. 

Instead, she knows she must think of the battles to come and set her broken heart away, to be dealt with when it is fitting.

It will never be fitting, she knows, and she is sure she’d have such counsel from her Hand, if she dared to speak with him on this matter. But it is a burden she must carry within herself, for Jon’s sake. 

Time passes strangely after Jon’s revelations.

Meetings with the Northern lords and her own council are dispiriting, tense affairs. Further arguments are held privately amongst the separate factions and do little to resolve anything. She goes on patrols with Drogon at first light, after she vomits every morning. She is grateful that Lady Sansa crushes any qualms from the cooks regarding her strange diet. Ultimately, Daenerys requests to dine alone as she cannot abide sharing the evening meal in the great hall as certain smells affect her deeply. When she has an appetite, she eats stews of winter hare, and drinks the blood when they are freshly slaughtered. Her moon blood does not come. 

It is after one of these rough mornings, her stomach still too frail for the usual hot tea, that she is frank with Missandei and asks if the changes have become noticeable. They speak in Valyrian, for she does not want the conversation to be overheard, though there are several who will understand despite the mild subterfuge. 

Missandei offers to have the maester attend to her but she demurs, for it is but early and she has a war to win. Many wars, in fact.

 

*

 

Three courses missed and she can feel the swell along her belly. She declines wine from Tyrion during a private meeting and his eyes glint. At first, she thinks it is fear. Yet he says nothing until the conversation has come to its natural conclusion and she is about to retire to her quarters.

“Does he know yet?”

She stiffens, her hands tight against the chair arms, unwilling to expose herself further. “There is nothing to know.”

“I did not expect it to be a brief affair. At first, I thought perhaps you both decided to be more discreet while in Winterfell but I see how he still looks upon you and you him,” he admits. “I do admire that you set him aside to focus on the war. But if--”

“Do not say it,” she says, and she means it to be forceful but the fear cannot be abated and she hates how her voice trembles.

“Have you been tended to, at least? I know this is a delicate situation. Maester Wolkan seems...acceptable.” Tyrion winces slightly, leans back in his chair, finishing the remnants of his drink.

“Silence is paramount. Do you think this maester a silent sort? Let us speak of this matter no longer.” She switches to Dothraki, for she cannot let him try to convince her otherwise. “I carried the stallion that would mount the world and never once held Rhaego in my arms. I lost a dragon beyond the wall. I will lose this one too for the gods are cruel.”

He does not understand her conversation at all, as she intended. It not until she exits the room that she comes across Jorah, standing in the shadows of the hall, his face pained in the dim light.

“You heard my words, then. Let us speak further, I would have your counsel,” she declares tiredly.

Jorah is far too understanding with her as they speak, looking over the snowy trees beyond Winterfell. Perhaps that is because he is the only living person that saw her dead child. He knows her mind is set and only asks if she is sure that this child will not survive.

“Yes,” she says and he allows the lie because he loves her and she pretends to agree with him that she will take care of herself, if there is a chance.

Before he leaves, he says gently, “Khaleesi, I remember when you first were at Vaes Dothrak and how fearless you were. Do not carry this burden alone.”

Yes, and she remembers what became of Vaes Dothrak when she was last there.

 

*

 

She dreams of the godswood burning that night, her hair veiled in snow.

Jaime Lannister’s sudden arrival comes with even worse news and yet, it ought not to have been a surprise; the unfavorable impression Tyrion had originally painted of Cersei Lannister has proven to be most true. It shall only be the North and her own forces to defy the horrors of the Long Night and she can barely speak with the North’s commander beyond what is necessary. Jon’s pained looks in her direction only stoke the fires within her, and she evades lengthy conversations with his allies, even the young Stark siblings. 

She wakes every morning expecting to find moon blood or worse. Instead it is the absence of Jon that leaves her bereft.

Alone, yet she is not the last one any more. A bitter irony.

One sharp, bright morning, she ventures to the godswood with her usual guards, finding Bran Stark there. Before she can apologize for intruding, he begins speaks to her with a detached familiarity. At first, she is wary that he knows her delicate situation, but instead, he tells her of her lost dragon, Viserion. His words are unkind, for he seems to be as cold and unforgiving as winter, yet he is bluntly honest. When he calls her the mother of dragons, it is but a title to him, a fact that he seems to know but not comprehend.

He tells her that she may need to kill her child, poor lost Viserion, and she knows she cannot lose another child.

 

*

 

Jon comes to her upon her private request, graciously delivered by Missandei, returning to the end of their beginning, in front of Lyanna’s statue. 

“Lord Stark protected you from birth,” she says plainly, nodding at the statue of Jon’s assumed father. “Would we have ever known one another if he had not kept the truth from you and all others?”

His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I have thought long upon it. But no matter what I am supposed to be, I am still Jon Snow. And there is a war coming. That is all I must be.”

She takes his hand then, bringing it to her face, the glove so cold and yet she could feel the fire between them still. “Do you think I want you to be anything more than what you are?”

“I--” he cuts himself off, his eyes pained as he says, “We cannot do this.”

“It’s already done.” She puts her gloved hands upon his chest and swears she can almost feel his heartbeat, a wild pounding. “I swear to you, I will not be the last Targaryen, Jon.”

“I am not--”

She grasps his other hand and sets it upon her belly. “Our child cannot be the last Targaryen either.”

His mouth should not taste so sweet but she has tasted bitter blood for far too long.

She fucks him in his quarters that night. It is not an act of love or relief, it is fucking, she rides his face until her release comes fiercely and then rides his cock until he lets out an unbidden “Dany.” 

Her fingers tighten in his loose locks, keeping her gaze upon him and lets her eyes say all that she cannot quite say in words. She knows why he has evaded her gaze for so long and she will not have satisfaction until he loses himself fully within her. Jon nearly unseats her when he comes and she falls to his chest, panting upon his scarred breast.

When she sleeps in the comfort of Jon’s arms, she has only has a fleeting dream of a child in hers, and snow melting to reveal verdant springtime grasses.

 

*

 

“I swore once I would father no bastards,” he tells her in the morning.

“I swore once I was barren.”

He huffs at that, his hand warm as he splays his fingers across her rounded stomach. “I intend on following my pledge.”

“You also did not seem to believe I was barren.” She wets her bottom lip waiting for his response.

“I had a foolish hope,” he admits. “I could not imagine that you would denied anything you desired.”

She laughs and she thinks it the first lighthearted laugh she has experienced since she came to Winterfell. “You denied me countless times.”

“Aye, and you did achieve the impossible.” His touch is gentle as he brings her face close to kiss her tenderly. “I am a fool and yet you have gotten through to my thick head.”

“This can still be impossible,” she warns him. For it is still early and she never carried her first son to full term. And they are at war and winter has come. The odds are against this babe. She lays it all out, trying to be as serious as he looks upon her with such devoted eyes.

“Things seems rather possible when it comes to you. The mother of dragons,” he says, and it is said so fondly and warmly that she cannot stop the tears forming in her eyes.

Still, she must not let it be so easy. “I am still furious with you, Jon Snow.”

“You were furious with me?” His weak attempt at levity is ignored and he returns to his usual seriousness, holding her hands between his own. “I was too consumed with anger--at the great lies, at my mother’s choices... and of the man who is said to be my father, that their love led to war and so much death. Then there is my true father, for Ned Stark will always be my father, no matter what. I thought I could set my love for you aside. I was a fool.”

“Do not marry me for the child’s sake or for my honor. Marry me because you want to,” she says before kissing his knuckles. “Let this be a true act.”

“A selfish act.”

“I was sure when I crossed the Narrow Sea that a political marriage was my future. Yet what I found was you, Jon Snow. Should we survive the Long Night--” and this she sees his expression shift, for she knows his darkest thoughts, that his death will come even if they do win the war. “No matter what fate we may have, I want it with you. If you feel the same, then I will marry you. But only then.”

“I will always take you.”

“Let us live together, then, Jon Snow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Working title was "Targaryen Restoration GET HYPE" tho this fic is probably a bit more melancholy than my mood when writing this piece.
> 
> I'm active on tumblr under the same username so feel free to send me prompts there.


End file.
